Date: Sun, 11 Jun 2006 18:15:29 -0400
From: A. Cheshire Cat <kierkegaard_is_cool@hotmail.com>
Subject: While Adonis Dances

While Adonis Dances
By: A.Cheshire Catt
Emails are cool, send pics, kierkegaard_is_cool@hotmail.com
June 10,11 2006

I forget the girl, I forget the night, it was someone that I was speaking
with recently, it was probably at a party I was at, she was there and
she'd probably heard me mentioning how much I was needing sex. She said
the thrill was the hunt. Lately I've been so busy writing about sexual
exploitations that I haven't actually gotten around to doing anything.
Abstinence, relunctant as it's been, has been driving me crazy. Watching
a straight couple groping and fondling each other on my own bed last
weekend was the last straw. Then I started having to work weird shifts,
getting home at weird hours, our internet being down, the whole situation
was killing me. I had to have sex.

I was sitting on the bus the other day and all of a sudden it was filled
when we drove by the University. There were all these kids that got on in
their Abercrombie and American Eagle brands, looking stylish with their
shaggy rockstar hair and slick reflective Chopper glasses. Boys are
beautiful in the summer. Staring darkly back at
ourselves from their glasses as they scan for seats. I was so horny that
I lifted my head up from the copy of Memoirs of a Geisha as if I'd
detected their delicious scent hacking through the lumbering midday crowd
and started to scan their faces for someone who might be letting their
glimpses linger a little too long, maybe someone would get off at the
next terminal. Not because I am but because if he smirked just right I'd
go with him. I'd never done it before but I've heard of a spot at the
place called Hurdman where people get off the bus with someone and go for
a walk to the bushes down by the old Rideau River and get it on, swiftly,
before coming back to board the next bus. There's even someone in the
local chat room that uses the name Hurdman because it's his favorite
haunt, he's just a cum-pig. Cum-pigs and cock sluts, they're of a breed
that I can't associate with anymore. One might say I'm above that. I
think I've just moved on. When I stopped doing that the spirit of it
rested. Only because I've had better, only because I don't have time
anymore to slip off the bus.

Responsibilities are killing the young slut in me.

So there I was reading about Japan in World War II when a young man
wearing green canvas shorts with a hem running all the way down to
mid-shin, postured himself directly to my left. His cock was right there:
you know what I mean. I couldn't even see his shirt out of the corner of
my eye, his crotch was right at my shoulder. This is the moment I knew I
had to have sex soon or it was going to destroy me. He was so close that
I instinctively twitched. He may not have noticed but I have this fear of
people being inside my personal space when I'm not inviting it. A fear
not of what they might do but what of what I might do, or what I might
seem to do, appear to do, you know what I mean, right? As the bus started
to weave toward Hurdman we swerved through the transit-way the buses
take, the corners being like deep grooves that made the people on the bus
lean this way and that, like infants in a crib at the mercy of a dopy
sitter. The young guy standing next to me leaned but faltered and a
moment later I felt his crotch graze my shoulder. I looked up at him. He
was probably 18 years old, tanned, with a huge jaw, barely any stubble
growing on it. I smiled but focused quickly again on the words in my
book. I could feel the fabric of his fly tickling my shoulder through my
cotton shirt. But it was barely touching me, I was just so sensitive. It
was such a tease. I wanted there to be a dog run out on the road or
something like that to cause him to fall right into me. I begged God to
let me have this boy land in my lap.

Of course we simply arrived at Hurdman and the boy got out and was gone.
What was I expecting anyway? I mean the kid was obviously just standing
there, how much pleasure could I have gotten if his elbow had driven into
my crotch and he banged his head off my chest? Probably only the
satisfaction of having looked at myself in the glimmer and shine of his
$20 sun glasses. That's not much.

As we drove on I was driven crazy with the memories of the most recent
sex I've had. Most recently was the previous Thursday, one week ago
today. I'd been hoping to turn a trick but had ended up making myself
silly with lust waiting for a bite and had to resort to childish advances
in a matter of convenience. Being as it was 11.30 pm on a balmy Thursday
night, social obligations were summoning me even though I didn't even
know it yet, I was in a hurry and needed to get my rocks off, you know
how it is. A cafe, late at night, it's about to close, you need to fuck,
you know how it is, right? I landed at some guy's place within a few
blocks of the internet cafe I was at. I'd typed to him, "I want to come
in and start immediately. I want there to be pushing and shoving, I want
you to be aggressive and manly, none of this straight to bed bullshit."
He'd said it sounded like it would be a lot of fun. I told him I was
serious.

If a man says to another man that he wants aggression and passion is
implied, upon arrival one should not through the ridiculous formalities.
"Hank." "Joe." "Nice to meet you." That sort of shit. No no no. I think
sex should be unabashedly ruthless, especially among strangers, and the
only way to remain strangers is to remain nameless, is to remain
closed-mouthed. Just smile and nod.

When I'd arrived I'd found that he was heavier than his picture had
illustrated. And upon instigating a growling, pushy approach he pulled
back and said that he'd like to go more slowly. Slowly. I hate slowly.
Slowly's for lovers and I don't fake that shit unless the price is right.

His place was a nice pad, the large space was actually just a badly
decorated bachelor's apartment. The Bed, a massive sleigh style structure
with smooth lines and sheets with a high thread count, was the center
piece. It was exactly what I didn't want. Grumblingly I growled through
an ordeal that was like sex, but the bastard even had a Prince Albert and
I hate sucking on metal, clanging in my fillings, it disgusts me. I made
like I was lazy and came on his face then slumped off to the side to
allow his load to shoot with an empty wind of pomp onto his belly.

Last night I wanted better sex. I went to the cafe again.

The second last time I'd had sex it was a little better. It was with
someone I'd done before, a rock climber and cyclist, he had a killer
chest and powerful legs, he also liked to piss on people which is
something that always drives me nuts. It was from him that I got the
desire to have sex like an assault. It had been perfect that night. I'd
done enough drugs all weekend to tire the Queen of the Disco, and danced
all damned day. He'd picked me up at my place after a short booty call at
nine on the Sunday previous to Prince Albert and took me to his condo
where he has a bird that repeats the most irritating songs from Chicago
and Moulin Rouge and all these ridiculous flicks. "Roxy. Roxy. Roxy." The
bird sang it over and over again. I found this so interesting. The first
time I'd been there we'd watched that movie and that had been my favorite
song in the movie. I'd gone around that night and the next morning
singing the words that I could remember. Here the bird was singing it
again for me.

But the point of all this was the entrance into the place. See, the sex
was purely carnal, no passion, no love really, on my part. Simply
functional, good design, like a chair with fine lines and simple purpose:
I wanted it to have no frills. I remember walking behind him down the
corridor of his condo toward the door of his place and the way I stalked
him sent shivers up MY spine and I felt like a hunter, like the hunt had
been back in the good old days of prowling and pouncing. As soon as we
got into his place it was started against the door frame, tearing away
clothes and kissing long and hard, our stubble grazing each other's
cheeks, burning the flesh. Our bodies pushing into each other and then
finally I pulled him down to the tiled floor and tore away his clothes
while his pet bird chirped, "Roxy. Roxy. Roxy." I hated it, being as it
was that I was high and brutalized constantly by annoying sounds.

I pulled him up the stairs, he pulled me down to the carpet there, it
burned my back but we took to it anyway, we basically used each other to
climb the stairs, like one the shadow or reflection of the other, like a
strange Siamese monster, two half faces, four arms, several legs. I took
him to the bedroom where we tried desperately to get the last bits of
clothing off our bodies, and finally achieving nakedness we were gnarled
in a clenched knuckle of fuck, breathing heavily, moaning with our mouths
together, humming. I took his cock in my ass like a pro, making it a
smooth transition, aiming it while at my ass while I straddled him. The
thrust of his hips at me was like that of a beast, starving, mad. I could
stand it on the bed anymore. He said roll over and I said, "Never." I got
off the bed and went over to the wall beside the mirrored closet doors
and spread my legs, putting one hand on the wall and using the other to
pull an ass cheek to the side. "Fuck me." He slid in and I moaned and my
fingers grabbed at the wall as they might a sheet on the bed, my knuckles
turned white with pressure but my face remained cool, I breathed just
ever so slightly more purposely, focussing all my energy on the area
around me fucked ass. I relaxed and breathed out as I cocked my eyebrow
at myself in the mirror, letting him see, moving my ever so slightly to
take him in as he fucked me and sweat from his forehead, gasping as a
pornstar might. Pornstars and pornographic zombies and the boys who want
to be them can make the most adorable faces when they're working on their
loads. I told him to fuck me until I came and when it was just about to
happen I told him and he pulled out. I turned and he'd already knealt at
my feet, mouth open to the offering, hungry still for it. He jerked
himself so that he came all over the blonde pubes in a patch on his lap
and as he gasped in pleasure of his own cumming I groaned and pointed my
cock at his face and shot it all over lips, nose, chin. We rested,
breathing heavily for a moment then I declared my desire to leave, I had
to get back to whichever party I was at that week. "But don't you want me
to piss on you?" No. I didn't. I wanted a fuck, it was too late now for a
shower. I never get what I want, it seems. Nothing is really what I need
it to be. Now that I left him rather dissatisfied I felt a little
disgruntled, I mumbled an apology and then he drove me home.

As I sat down last night at the computer I was thrilled with the
prospect, I wanted it to be like that again, I wanted us both to be
satisfied though, that would leave me satisfied. Though it was later than
what I'd expected I was still hoping to catch some people before they
head out to the bar. The crowd diminishes around that time and pickings
are rather slim.

I hate the smell of alcohol on the breath of the man I am devouring. I
hate the stench of poppers too, but that's a story for another time. I
hate gay bars most of all. I didn't want to have to go out and find
someone to take home and do like that. I hate the process of meeting
someone at the bar. I hate it so much that I was there, in a cafe, on a
great night to be out, at about that time when it's great to be out.

Sitting there I imagined the bar, the line up, the people that would be
there. I imagined people I know there and I could see them laughing as
they scooped up tourists and regulars in the ladel of their lust, pouring
it into the bowl of satisfaction later on. Spooning till morning. But I
shrugged my shoulders, hating the thought of having to do all that
myself. The thought of seeing these people I know while I do the business
of hunting seemed impractical and outright dull.

I hate the music, I hate the drunkenness, I hate the slobbering nonsense
of delinquents thinking they're beautiful.

It's all fun and games until they wake up with a hang over.

I wasn't finding anyone serious about meeting as soon as possible. I
didn't want this to be an all-night hunt. The girl the other night that
told me she liked the hunt was preaching to the choir. I so enjoy the
ridiculousness of flirting with men online. I love the dialogue,
obviously there's an abundance of it as it is the only thing that keeps
men hooked when the pictures may be great.

But one can talk and talk or type and type until they're blue in the
face, eventually it's going the be up to the other person and the only
one that I had going on for any length of time wasn't really going to be
the greatest lay, it was going to be like the last one I'd had, the one
with the annoying piercing, the guy who'd promised a blockbuster and had
turned out rather lack-lustre.  I was willing to take him but he opted
out, claiming it was too late.

I surrendered, I'd go to the bar.

Upon seeing the line-up I went with plan C: the Bath House.

The Bath House is a blande concrete-block warehouse style building off
Bank Street, the main drag of this town. There's nothing to advertise it
anywhere, just the number on a green door and the ominous presence of
strange men lingering outside smoking cigarettes waiting to go in.

Back in the day of my glory, this was my throne room. It was my smoking
room when I was planning wars. It was my opium den when I was a
disillusioned artist. It was my cottage when the city was getting too
close. It was my hiding place when the rent hadn't been paid. It was my
hunting grounds when I was a young tiger finally away from his mother's
ways. I've written so many stories describing the innards that really the
beast that it is is no longer a mystery for me. Now the beast simply
digests me, and I am in it when I am in it and I am out when I leave. A
man I once knew in this place said that it is one of the few places left
on this planet, like a church, where one leaves with what they came with
if not just slightly changed somehow.

For years I've been waiting to say to him that the Disco is like that
too. When you don't leave with anyone.

I walked in and took a locker and stripped with delicacy and grace, like
the undressing of a geisha. There were a few men around that were of the
variety to make one sick. Fat, balding, white, the skin or their bellies
and shoulder as smooth as plastic. When I was much younger I'd written a
story about a young man touring an art gallery in his own mind and he
came upon a scene with two older, uglier men bordering, trapping, damming
the pure white flow of the young man between them. It was this sort of
place I was describing. Wrapping myself in the softest of soft white
towels I began a tour of the place to see who was in. On the main floor
there was no one, and I thought to myself how dreadful the prospect would
be, to end up sleeping with one of these ridiculous characters. The sauna
was calling my name but I wasn't ready yet.

I took a gallant tour around the second floor rooms, admiring the
hideousness of large, bloated, beached whales, smirking at the twitch of
buttocks as they awaited the attention of eager cocks. I rolled my eyes
with such childish boredom, it seems as though all these men come here to
have sex with Adonis, all of us have come here to have sex with Adonis,
but it was obvious to anyone who'd been alive in the last five years,
since smoking had been banned in the bath house, since the local chatroom
became as popular as it was, since the bars got better, there weren't
very many people who would prefer to be in here when they could be out at
the bar. Standing in lines, listening to women tickle their own fancies,
comparing fags, the hags, that's where Adonis is, rolling his eyes as I
do, wandering a circular path over and over again, playing again and
again some sad song in my mind. I don't know what was in my head but I
was humming something, something moaned like a Ray Charles lament, or
some sleepy Louis Armstrong shiver, "When it's sleepy time Down South . .
. "

Up to the third floor then, to my perch. Having come here often enough to
believe I'm memorable, "my perch" is the seat at the end of the couch by
the door to the room. Men lean against the threshold there, they feign
interest in the porn playing on the screen. I have my feet up on the
table, high arches, long toes, trimmed toe nails, a smear of grime on the
heels, a few hairs on the knuckles: the man that leans there watches me
closely, watches me as I seemingly dreamily tickle the hairs of my legs,
the length of them turned blue in the darkness and somehow lit up as if
by moonlight in the flicker and flash of the pornographic zombies long
dead to world yet dying eternally on the screen. The thought, not of the
theme in the porn, but that someone is watching me, draws my imagination
into a dark hiding space, an oasis, and my sac heaves and churns with the
desires of my day. I click my tongue as the movie dares to attempt some
thread of plot and opt to leave the room with an adjustment of my towel
about my waist.

I feel eyes from uninhabited shadows follow me from the room. There are
ghosts in the bath house and they come out late at night. They are the
ghosts of boys who thought they knew themselves so well, as if they were
delicious. Once I approached one and he said, "What are you looking at?"
I said, "Nothing." Boys, they think they know.

I dart down the stairs, down down down, down to the place where I'd
walked in. Circular. All of this is. I go to the locker and try to think
of something I need, it's not fair that we can't smoke in here. I'd read
just the other day in the newspaper that there was a brothel in Australia
fighting to have the right to have smoking in their establishment
because, "The two go hand in hand." It's true, I needed a cigarette, but
there was nothing I could do about it but squirm. I went for a shower and
relaxed a bit. You know how it is when you're tall and slim in the shower
seductively letting the soap fall through the creases and cracks of the
back muscles, letting the suds collect that the crack of my ass like I
can control them, clenching those muscles there, taunting the ghosts of
the boys in the hollow corners.

At one particular moment I turned and looked at the door and saw a man
there had been lingering to watch the show of my showering. I put my hand
against the tiled wall and the water changed its flow to something more
of a flat wash over my torso, rinsing the soap away with one gush. I
wasn't watching him anymore but almost as though I had anticipated it to
the second it happened, he suddenly reached around my belly and I felt
his body press warmly against my ass. He was shorter than myself, as I am
quite tall, and if I'd just stayed there as I was staring at his tanned
hand on my belly, the water rushing over his wrinkled digits, I could
have let him stroke my length indefinitely. When I turned I was destroyed
to see that he was ugly, too hairy for me, wearing a gold chain that
smacked of mid-life crisis. I shut off the water.

Turning around fully, unabashedly, he thought this was a sign for him to
launch his Armada, sorry to say, I wasn't interested and tapped him
kindly on the shoulder while I went to the towel on the rack.

"You're beautiful," he cried out. I smiled without looking at him.

Once upon a time I'd run into an elderly friend here, right over there by
the door to the stairs, by the door to the sauna, right over there. The
ghost of myself was standing there right now. He was saying to that
elderly gentleman, the ghost of whom was not present, how happy he was to
see him. His sparkling spectre eyes glimmered with ghoulish intention,
ahh I could remember that night well, the man with whom I'd been speaking
had said, "You don't even know it but there are all sorts of people
giving you the look." Suddenly the ghost said, and I mouthed the words
with him, "I'm used to it."

I laughed.

The man said it again, "I think you're beautiful, do you speak English?"

In long strokes I dried my stretched muscular if perhaps just slightly
feminine legs, gripping the slippery floor with my talon toes. Standing I
dried my hair then and ran my fingers through it, posing for him like a
delightful treat I said, "I do, and thank you. But no."

I saw him collapse under the weight of the shower water he turned on at
that instant. He'd given up on me. I was bored already.

I went to the sauna to warm myself, to bake my skin, making sure the heat
was up and the timer was set before I went in.

There were two other people in the small nook of a sauna with me. It
smelled like a sauna I visited when I was a kid. It always does and
always will. The ghost of a boy is sprawled on the back bench, he's
dozing with a hangover, he's grumbling with dreary comfort. He's used to
it. A man is sitting there, by his head, and the other man is drying
himself and takes a seat on the lower bench by the ghost's phantom feet.
I launch myself onto the upper bench in the corner by the ghost's feet.
The sauna always gets me horny. It's the dark heat, it's the quiet. It's
like when I used to have sex in bathroom stalls, Pavlovian like that,
instead of taking a shit I'd always have to cum after having conditioned
myself for years. This is the same sort of place, same song and dance.
(And Adonis is dreary on the dancefloor too.) Another reason is because
that in this orange burning ember chamber, the bodies cramped in here,
three of us, very intensely, anyone can be beautiful. An artist's
charcoal would give our bodies sultry lines and like a summer heatwave
everything seems ablaze with the mania of some midsummer night's
determination. The shadows of the room smelled of an ancient forest,
filled with primitive possibilities, steaming and sweaty and all that. I
lounge upon the top bench and sigh, and then that man there sighs and
he's fast tonight, he moves into me and strokes my leg, the left, the one
nearest him. It's the one sitting on the bench by my legs that strikes my
interest. I begin stroking his shoulder.

He's actually older than what I'd thought, he used to work out, I can
tell that much about him just by stroking his shoulder. It means nothing
though. I know that much. In this drooling room there's little time for
second thoughts. When the sex of this room is done well it is done with
abandon and the man I crave takes my leg to worship it with his tongue
and a gentle touch. A part of me often finds itself boasting and laughing
sneeringly at society, that's the part of me that out there in the real
world likes to be objectified, but it takes such a brawny strong man to
wear the weight of such a weighty jaded armor. I wear it all the time out
there. In this place I am adored. I can whine. I can dismiss. I can spoil
myself. I can be relieved by the pleasure of giving in. I let my body be
a temple for the prayers of others.

The other man gets the idea and flees with his dignity, and then there is
only the two of us.

He's got a nice chest, his hair is trim, no jewellry or piercings, just a
man's body. No frills. Perfect.

But by this point I was so warm from the heat of the sauna that a certain
lethargic surrender was all I was capable of. I kissed him despite the
taste of rum and coke that lingered on his tongue. When he put his arms
around me I gave myself to him as though I were helpless, but then
affectionately held him. As a single man, a young man, far from family,
there's only so much time before one has to be held, and the importance
of being held is as vital to a young man's life as the warmth of sun is
to a budding bloom. The fires of his passion burned brighter, and we
played such a combatative game of who is holding who before finally I was
held and he leaned me to the side that he may more lavishly dazzle me
with delicate kisses, as if upon each rib he placed a note and for each
note he played a ticklish tune came from me. He brushed my outstretched
arms with tender affection, and in the darkness, hot like burning coal,
our breathing oozed and the press our bodies excited me. I discovered his
powerful urge when my wandering hand went down between his legs to the
puckering lips of his ass, when fingers danced there he moaned so
contentedly that I knew I must take him.

Abruptly I sat up, adjusting my hair. I pushed him back, nearly making
him fall in the sauna, never once letting my lips leave his. Standing now
I told him to lean against wall, turning him around, spreading his legs.
I lowered myself to bury my face between the tight cheeks of his ass. He
was a roller blader, or a cyclist, his lower body was still quite strong
while his upper body was in need of some attention. His thighs were
massive. A runner maybe. I massaged them as I let my tongue jut and poke
and pummel his ownership of the situation, strong limbs are a big turn on
for me.

The spice of his hole coated my tongue, I closed my eyes as an attacking
shark would, devouring the flavor hungrily. When he was hottest I put a
spit-lubed finger at the hole and pushed open the door. He gasped and was
helpless for that moment, like a child unsure of the intention, certain
only of the thing he felt at that moment, helpless to my desire, just the
body of a man but at MY fingertip. Delicious. When he was ready, and I
was ready too, I stood and aimed my cock at his ass, before I poked it in
I leaned over and whispered: "You want this don't you?"

I saw he was biting his lip nervously, "Yes."

I pushed against him and tried to take it slow. The head of my cock
penetrated him, making him jump, the sweat on his back poured out. The
heater of the sauna in a noisy clickety-clackety way made it hotter in
there. Soon, I swear with the lube of the sweat that poured down his
back to the crack of his ass, I began to tease him with a gyration that
dipped the first inches of my cock into him, it was the first stages in
this methodical fuck of his tight hole. He gasped and moaned like a
child. It was too much, "Too much." He didn't stop me though, he stood
still and took it. I caressed one of his arms, almost as though my
intention was to attract attention that part of his body while I slowly
pushed in all the way. He clenched, I whispered my wish that he'd relax,
after some breaths he did: I began fucking him. Slowly, slowly, at first.
I loved it. He was the perfect height for me. I relaxed myself and felt
my balls slapping thighs. I rubbed his shoulders, I was sweating like
hell, as was he, and the heat was making me dizzy.

The moment was intruded upon by a strange character I'd not seen before.

He entered the room to witness my tall thin body fucking the shorter more
muscular one, the both of us standing there sweating wildly. The man I
was fucking turned his face to the shadows to avoid the glaring light
from outside. The man at the door was letting fresh air in and it was
ruining everything. I gave him a scornful glare. I couldn't see him that
well because the light was behind him, but I could tell he was really
attractive, his hair was longer, cut nicely, conditioned, his shoulders
bulged a little. Though he was muscular.

He came in.

As he neared he allowed himself to join in the fun, and I allowed him to
touch me. I hesitated. I was like a dog letting himself be sniffed
without letting his guard down. As if he sensed the hair standing up on
my back he actually rubbed the tight muscles between my shoulders and
told me to hush. The guy I was fucking said, "Fuck me."

The guy was about my height, I took stock of him while he circled around
me. He went behind me and down and began sucking on my ass as I had done
for the man I was fucking. It felt so good to be rimmed while I was
fucking. A treat, I must say, a real treat. He fingered me ever so
lightly, I felt his finger enter my body. I coughed in the heat, I was in
ecstasy. He pulled his finger out and started to massage the area around
it. Lined himself up and said, "I want to fuck you."

"Fuck me."

"Fuck me!" The guy I was fucking said, he said it to me.

I eased up on the motion of fucking for a second, it was like that part
in Beethoven's Ninth, you know, right as the orchestral build up reaches
the apex, there's a hesitation, the theme is hummed, hinted at, everybody
knows what's coming. Then suddenly the Gentleman Intruder forced his way
in and I nearly yelled with the pleasure of his entry. The climax began,
oh and it was powerful, the three of joined in the fuck. Powerfully, I
was driven into, equally I drove into too. Matching the rhythms of it all
took a moment really but then everything was well in the end.

I was the one that wanted to cum. I said, "Oh my God."

It was the moment, was this worth it all, was this the thing that I had
wanted so badly, this ...

I came suddenly, right up into the guy's ass, I reached around and
clenched his balls in a fist with one hand and the other I used to hold
onto the guy's thigh to steady him, I was hyper-sensitive and his fucking
was delirious through my brain. I slowed it all down.

I thanked them, found my towel and key and left the room, coming upon a
world of light, cool air, post-coital, giggling on wobbly legs.

A man cut me off but I ignored him by ducking my eyes and wiping the
sweat off my forehead. I was on fire. The man that cut me off turned back
and came at me. His eyes moved around me in a sketchy way, his hands
fumbled with the corners of his towel. Muscular and tan, but ridiculously
tanned, there was something just slightly off about this man. A doorbell
rang. Someone new was coming in, I looked to the door and saw that as
that person was coming in two more were coming as well. The bars had let
out. Adonis was on his way, this man here could wait for him, he looked
at me with those drunken eyes of his and believed me to be that Adonis.
"No."

I stood for a second to catch my balance then moved into the shower where
the man with whom I'd instigated the threesome joined me. I was still
hard. My cock was bouncing around when I took away the softness of my
towel away and when I turned I saw him there, still hard, still ready to
cum. He walked toward me and for some reason I wanted to finish it off
with him. I lowered to my knees with the hot water of the shower
splashing on my shoulders, when I tilted my head back my hair was wet in
it. I took his cock in my mouth to start sucking it. He pulled me off and
I pouted. I saw a look in his eyes, a dark look. Not to mention the dark
rings around his eyes, there was something sinister about this man's
look, there was something a little harder about his intentions.

I looked at his penis as he aimed it at me. I knew exactly what
was happening here. I started to stroke my shaft anticipating his next
movement. Suddenly the lips of his pecker opened and a dribble of golden
stench spewed out. In an instant the dribble was a stream, spraying me in
his piss. It was incredible that he knew I was the sort to take it, but
he didn't know, he just did it. He just did it. I took it too. I let him
spray the hot piss on my chest and as it made its way down to my crotch I
felt it slick and smooth on my shaft and the smell rose up to my nose. I
moved in so close to his cock that the piss trickled off my lips. I'd
never done it before but I actually took his flowing shaft into my mouth
and tasted the fermented syrup of his body. It was so delicious I
squirmed and began again to churn with desire. As his arch of piss ebbed
and subsided he stroked his cock more earnestly and suddenly shot loads
of cum at my mouth, nose, and chin. I opened my mouth and got some.
Licking my lips, I smiled. He thanked me. Turning then, he left me in the
shower, on my knees. I jerked one last time and suddenly came there,
straight into the drain. Shivering with the last drop of semen to get
out.

I moaned.

I collapsed a bit. The water washing over me, washing the stench of the
piss off my torso, ridding my hair of the wreak of it, was as relaxing as
the grip of a strong man massaging me. It was cool too, down this low to
the floor and I indulged myself in the spray of cool water.

I stood, spent, and tired now.

Again the slow serenade of the soap upon my tall body, slim and hot from
the sauna, down the sinuous lines of the muscles in my back, brushing the
dimples, dipping into the crack of my ass.

Oh what lament. There's a word for it in Latin, the melancholy
experienced by beasts after sex. The woe, the lament of it. A man who was
a priest who was a customer of mine when I was working as escort, he was
the one who'd whispered it into my ear one night.

As if involved in a ceremony I cleansed myself of the grit of my actions.

Drying myself was done alone, but with no less grace than if an audience
of the whole city watched.

Dressing was done slowly, with the eyes of a man in the jacuzzi watching
me apply layer upon layer. Socks, underwear, jeans, teeshirt, sweater, a
bag, shoes -- the cigarettes -- and then out, fixing my damp hair in the
dark reflection of the coke machine, dropping my towel in the bin by the
door, handing my key to the doorman, bidding him a smiling adieu. I left
with nothing more than what I'd come with, only just slightly changed by
it.

The ghost of a boy lingered at the door, right at the precipice to this
place. I threw open the door and saw out there three men finishing
cigarettes, two of them laughing about something they'd seen at the bar.
I pulled out a cigarette, lit it, slinking around the corner of the
building to disappear from sight just as Adonis came 'round the other way
to enter.

Circular, like that.